


A Gentleman and a Scholar: Kingsman Goes to Hogwarts

by Lywinis



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Getting Together, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-01-28 00:37:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12594132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us somehting please,
Whether we be old and bald,
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling
With some interesting stuff,
For now they're bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we've forgot,
Just do your best, we'll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bearfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/gifts).



[Hogwarts Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1973]

Harry had forgotten how chilly England could be in the winters. While France had been cold, it was tempered with the knowledge that it wasn’t nearly as wet as England’s weather. Now, sitting on the train to Hogwarts, alone in the cabin up front, he was wrapped in his wool overcoat. He couldn’t help but keep staring out the window at the fog that rolled in on the train tracks.

His father insisted that he’d get used to the weather again, and Harry was sure that he would, it was just…chilly now.

He’d never seen a sweet cart before, not on the trips he’d taken back to Beauxbatons, and when the nice witch passed by, he bought a chocolate frog with a small twinge of guilt. His mama might scold him for spoiling his dinner, but he was sure that he wouldn’t be eating for a long while yet. Besides, Grand-Mère had given him the pocket money for a reason (still murmuring that he should have stayed at his academy).

In truth, he’d been happy at his Grand-Mère’s estate, but Harry’s father had insisted. His son was coming home, and he was going to Hogwarts, like a proper English wizard. He’d acquiesced to two years of Beauxbatons because it made his wife happy, but Harry needed the right kind of education – at least that was the talk around the table during his summer home.

Harry wasn’t sure why it was so important, but here he was. He’d chosen a seat up front, because the seventh years were all crammed into the first two boxes, strangely enough. It was some kind of bet, and the girl he’d asked had been nice enough to pat his head and tell him he could have the little compartment to himself. He munched his chocolate, contemplating what type of castle Hogwarts would be, compared to Beauxbatons.

Surely it couldn’t be as lonely.

It was approaching evening as the train wended its way toward the castle. He knew that he would be riding in the carriages, not taking the boats with the first years. For that, he was grateful. Being thirteen years old and crammed into a boat with a bunch of children wasn’t his idea of a good time, as impressive as the view from the lake must be.

Instead, he watched as the fog cleared, the train cutting through the mists like a steam-powered knife to reveal the outline of Hogwarts against the setting sun.

It was…not what he hoped. The castle was imposing, in the way the English had, making it dark and gloomy as it hunched over the outcropping of rock that held it like a gargoyle on a parapet. Harry felt the first tick of nervousness slide into his belly, something cold that the small bit of chocolate couldn’t calm.

He already missed the light and airy castle in the Pyrenees, with the golden fountain in the courtyard. Crunchy fall leaves swirled around the window, reminding Harry of the nip of the world outside the train. This was not his place, and he already felt the ache of wishing for the familiar. There would be hot cocoa in the dining hall, and he would have his house about him, even if he weren’t as close with them as he would like. Still, they were familiar and he already knew their ulterior motives.

For a young man like Harry, that was a comfort.

The train slowed as it approached Hogsmeade Station, and Harry smoothed his coat down, wanting to make a good impression. His hair, the brown shot through with strands of gold, was patted into place as he combed it with his fingers. Not the best, but it would do. As the train stopped, he stood, buttoning his coat against the cold of the rain and fog.

He wasn’t noticed in the bustle of everything, managing to grab a carriage, and he climbed in. He wasn’t expecting the dark-haired young man who climbed in after him. Blue eyes were set below serious brows…at least until he caught sight of his traveling partner. Then the smile happened.

“Oh!” he said, mischief written all over his face as he peered at Harry. Harry swallowed and shifted backward, against the wall of the carriage. “Sorry. I didn’t realize this one was taken. D’you mind?”

Harry shook his head. “There’s space. Seems a waste to have it all to myself.”

“Too right.” The young man plopped right down opposite Harry, cradling his pocket as he did. Harry blinked in surprise when a small toad poked its head out, goggling at the world around it. It was smoother than most, with a reddish-brown belly and a cream colored back, dotted with small brown spots. “This is Sam. He was a gift.”

“Charming,” Harry said, uncertain. His own cat, Lulu, was currently dozing in her basket and being loaded with the rest of the luggage. “Are you, uh…?”

He gestured at the boy’s lack of robes and got a grin in response.

“It’s a secret,” he said. “Besides, you haven’t even told me your name.”

“Uh…Harry Hart,” Harry replied. “And you are?”

“James Spencer, whose American cousins are colossal twats and bought me a toad named Uncle Sam so I’d have to introduce him that way every time,” James said with a wink.

Harry barked a startled laugh, and decided he liked James quite a bit.

“This is your first year here, isn’t it?” James said, glancing at Harry’s long wool overcoat.

“How could you tell?” Harry asked.

“No robes, like me,” James said. “I was abroad in America, studying at Salem.”

“Beauxbatons,” Harry supplied. “I was told to wear those robes until I was sorted, so that the house elves could sew on the proper patches.”

“Yes,” James said with a nod. “I was told that too. Rumor is there’s another new third year, but his parents are bringing him rather than letting him ride the train with us. Heard he was privately tutored until the Minister demanded he come to school.”

Harry had never heard of such a thing. Even the poshest of wizard families sent their children off to school. It was unheard of for a witch or wizard to be privately tutored, though learning new spells at home in a magical family wasn’t abnormal. One’s school was a mark of pride, and Harry was certain that there would be more talk about that one than about him. He wondered if the Ministry had a field day getting that new boy into school.

He had been so invested in his conversation with James, he didn’t realize they had passed through the gates until James tugged his sleeve. They pressed their faces to the windows as the carriages rounded into the courtyard, taking in the high castle walls. Harry felt that swoop in his stomach again.

He was here. There was nothing for it but to go inside.

* * *

He and James were cordoned off in a cloakroom by a severe-looking woman named Professor McGonagall.

“You boys will wait here until our third transfer has arrived,” she said. “If you put your coats there, the elves will see them to your dormitories once you’ve been Sorted. While three in a single year is highly unusual, you’re not my first transfers. You’ll be Sorted last, once we call the first years.”

Harry remembered, vaguely, his older brother Malcolm talking about being Sorted. It must be different in each school, he realized. His house in Beauxbatons was chosen by magic mirror – he’d placed his hand upon it and a butterfly had sparkled above his head, blue and smoky, which had placed him in Papillonlisse without a fuss. This whole Hat business seemed…strange.

“Don’t worry,” James said, nudging him. “I hear the Hat is pretty neat.”

“I’m so glad we live up to the rumors, Mister Spencer.” James flushed as Professor McGonagall fixed him with her gaze. She was a true teacher; Harry wanted to squirm under her eye but he held himself still.

She was stern, but there was a twinkle of good humor in her when Lulu found him in short order as their bags were shuffled past. The cat scratched at her basket, meowing as he ran to her, and Harry stroked the Oriental shorthair before pressing his lips to her broad forehead and murmuring that she should wait for him in French. Perhaps he babied her, but she was his only real friend these days. She knew all his secrets. Thank god cats didn’t tell.

He stroked Lulu’s tuxedo fur once more before the baggage needed to be moved again. He would see her in his dormitory, surely.

Harry tried not to feel a little outcast, but it was strange looking at all these girls and boys filing their way into the Great Hall and leaving them to fend for themselves. The first years, eleven-year-olds who’d just learned of their acceptance to a magical school—some of which for the first time ever experiencing magic—were filed into the Great Hall last. Harry and James were shuffled just behind them, before the creaking of the main doors behind them made them turn.

A tall, noble looking couple escorted a young boy into the hallway, and James scrambled to get a good look, practically climbing over Harry in his haste. Harry squawked and moved, letting James peer out of the door instead of him. The man and woman exuded an almost otherworldly aura of disinterest, dark haired and regal as they spoke with McGonagall. Both bore hawkish noses and high, dark brows. The boy took after his father more, with black hair in a carefully groomed part to the right. Their voices were too quiet to be heard from here, but Harry had a feeling that this was their third transfer.

McGonagall guided the third boy away from his parents, who didn’t spare him a look and walked out the doors, straight-backed and proud. James scowled beside Harry.

“They didn’t even tell him goodbye,” he complained. “Whose parents do that?”

“Not mine,” Harry murmured. His mama had kicked up a fuss when he was getting ready to board the train. His father had squeezed his shoulder and sent him off, and he knew they cared about him. This boy’s parents had sent him off without a word.

James subsided when the boy neared them, almost like he was waiting in anticipation. When McGonagall guided them to the back of the first years, telling them to wait there, he turned and stuck out a hand.

“James Spencer,” he said, giving the biggest, sunniest smile. “We’re new, too.”

“Harry Hart,” Harry added, feeling like he’d been roped into this by James.

“Martin,” he said, looking down at James’s hand. It was almost like he’d never seen someone initiating a handshake before. “Martin Gainsborough.”

“Ooh, did you get Sorted already?” James asked. He seemed to be distracted from the snub by the patch on Martin’s chest. Harry blinked, looking to where James was, and saw a tiny embroidered Slytherin patch. It was then that he realized that Martin’s tie was already in the colors of the house, silver and green.

“No,” Martin replied. He didn’t seem bothered by it, really, as though it was already an accepted fact. “Gainsboroughs have been Slytherins for generations. I don’t see any reason to suppose that it will be different.”

“Wait, so your parents went to Hogwarts?” James said. “Why didn’t you get sorted?”

“They wanted my education to be pure. The Ministry said otherwise.” Martin shrugged. “Do be quiet, please. They’re about to start.”

 James huffed in outrage, but Harry realized that Martin was right. The large, wooden double doors of the Great Hall were about to swing open, creaking on their hinges as they swung outward. Harry caught his breath.

The Great Hall was much prettier on the inside than it was on the outside. The hall was lit by thousands of floating candles, the ceiling enchanted to resemble the evening sky outside. There was a hush that fell over the hall as the grouped tables, four in all, turned to look at the first years. There were low murmurs as they caught sight of the three boys behind the smaller children, however.

Harry shifted, uncomfortable, as he felt the weight of all the stares on him.

James sucked in a breath. “And they do this for everyone? In _front of_ everyone?”

Harry was glad he wasn’t the only one nervous, but James looked a bit green around the gills.

“Yes,” Martin murmured. “Watch.”

Professor McGonagall strode to the front of the hall, a stool and a beaten wizard’s hat in each hand. She set the stool down, then turned to the man sitting at the middle of the high table. It wasn’t hard to recognize Albus Dumbledore. Once the Transfiguration teacher, he’d returned to Hogwarts to become its headmaster, and he nodded at McGonagall, rising.

“This a new year, for all of you,” he began. “We are here to welcome our newest students to their home, and hope it shall remain their home, even if they are not new students.”

His blue eyes twinkled, and Harry could tell he was good-humored, even from the other end of the hall. The crowd had hushed as they listened.

“We have three unexpected returns, though like good surprise gifts they will be appreciated for what they are – new friends to spend our days with,” he said, gesturing with a hand to the back of the hall. “We will be sorting our First Years, and then our three new Third Years will step forward when called. In the interest of international cooperation, I should like each of them to display a particular talent learned from their respective teachers – though I understand that stage fright might preclude that, and I shall think nothing less of them for it. We have so much to learn, even when we leave these hallowed halls, you see.”

He nodded at McGonagall, who placed the hat onto the stool. Almost as soon as the hat touched the worn wood, the hat sprang to life. In a thin, warbling voice, it began to sing.

 

_“I've sorted high, I've sorted low,_

_I've done the job through thick and thin_

_So, put me on and you will know_

_Which house you should be in..._

_In Gryffindor, where brave and true,_

_Are the qualities they seek,_

_Or Slytherin where cunning and ambition_

_Marks the company you keep._

_Though yet you might be Ravenclaw,_

_Where the mind is held on high,_

_Or last–not least–is Hufflepuff,_

_Where all true loyalty lies._

_Put me now upon your brow,_

_I'll Sort you where you belong,_

_Don't be afraid—I've been properly made,_

_And I've never once been wrong!”_

 

The hall erupted into applause as the hat fell silent. The first years shuffled and jostled each other, clearly more nervous than even Harry was, and that was some comfort to him. James had somehow found an iron grip on his sleeve, and Harry awkwardly patted his hand.

“We’re going to have to show a spell,” James hissed. “Why?”

“Maybe so the teachers can figure out where we are in our education,” Harry murmured. “Just do the one you’re the best at.”

That didn’t seem to reassure James, who bunched closer to Harry as the first years began to be called. The first sat on the stool, and McGonagall placed the hat upon her head. A little mousy-looking girl, she startled when the hat called out.

“Gryffindor!”

The table farthest to the right erupted into cheers, the red and gold banners inscribed with a roaring lion shaking. She was welcomed to the table in short order, and the next Sorting began.

And so it went, with each of the first years being sorted. Each of the tables hooted for their acquisitions, from the cheering of the silver and green Slytherins at the far left, the good-natured whooping from the Hufflepuff table next to them, to the cheering of the Ravenclaw table next to the Gryffindor table on the right.

Harry let his eyes pass over the crowds. A lot were staring at him, but he had become used to that. It was white noise to him now, the feeling of eyes, at least in passing. He was waiting on his turn, sizing up each of the tables in turn. A pair of hazel eyes behind mended spectacles caught his attention, however; he turned to find a boy at the Ravenclaw table, seated at the end and staring at him.

It was odd, because the end of the table usually meant that he was a first year. This boy, however, had to be about Harry’s age. He had the gangly, half-grown look of a boy that had just hit his teenage years, with dark hair that fell naturally in a high widow’s peak. Their eyes met, and rather than being embarrassed to be caught staring, the boy met his eyes defiantly, as if to dare him to say something. His prominent jaw and dark, beetled brows hinted at a masculinity that wouldn’t be apparent for many years, but there was still a softness to his face that appealed to Harry.

He’d always been able to appreciate someone who was aesthetically pleasing, and this boy with long fingers and a moody, almost belligerent gaze was _interesting_. Harry met his gaze evenly, letting a small smile touch his lips. A pink flush crawled its way up the other’s neck, and the intense boy looked away, swallowing hard.

His attention was called away, however, as Professor McGonagall called for Martin to step up. Harry watched as the serious young man squared his shoulders and stepped up to the Sorting Hat.

“Please, Mr. Gainsborough, a demonstration, if you will,” Professor McGonagall said. Martin nodded, withdrawing his wand and turning to face the assembled students.

“ _Herbifors_ ,” he murmured, turning his wand point down and spinning it in a circle. Harry watched as greenery began to sprout, tiny succulents that took root in the cobbles of the dais, following the twists of Martin’s wand.

“Excellent,” McGonagall said, once there was a small carpet of flowering cacti at Martin’s feet. “Take a seat, if you please.”

“How am I supposed to follow that?” James muttered. “How are either of us? That has to be a fourth-year spell.”

Harry shrugged. He really had no idea at this point. He watched as the Sorting Hat was lowered onto Martin’s head. It sat there, for a long time, longer than most. James frowned, biting his lip as one minute, then two, and then three dragged on.

“I’ve heard of this,” he said. “A Hatstall. When the Sorting Hat just can’t decide where it wants you to go.”

Harry nodded. While rare, Hatstalls were something that he’d heard about as well. His brother, a sixth year Hufflepuff at the time, now long graduated, had told him that the Hat had argued with a child in his first year Sorting for a total of six minutes before eventually placing him in Ravenclaw. A Hatstall was considered either a really portentous omen, or a bad one, depending on who you spoke to. Some said that you exhibited all the Founders’ desired traits, while others argued that you didn’t have _any_ , which is why the Hat struggled.

Martin closed his eyes, giving a minute shake of his head. This seemed to decide the hat, which shouted its answer to the crowd watching with bated breath.

“Slytherin!”

There was a lot of cheering from the Slytherin side of the room as Martin rose and moved to the table. A gap opened for him to sit, and he was welcomed into the fold like he’d never left. Harry swallowed. He hadn’t really thought about what he’d like to be sorted into. It was hard to reconcile the thought that he wouldn’t be leaving to go back to his fellow butterflies at Beauxbatons.

While he had no real friends throughout, it was still the familiar.

“James Spencer, newly arrived to us from Salem,” Professor McGonagall called. “Please come up and be Sorted.”

James swallowed hard, unkinked his fingers from their death grip on Harry’s sleeve, and moved forward. He pulled his wand from his plain robes, marching around the tidy group of succulents. He brandished his wand, closing his eyes and doing the movement as though he’d practiced it over long hours. A flowing, swishing movement, and then—

“ _Aguamenti!_ ”

Water jetted from the tip of his wand, much like a small fountain, sprinkling the succulents with water droplets. Harry inhaled as whispers rippled through the crowd. That was still impressive, despite not being as advanced as Martin’s. James stuck his wand back up his sleeve, nervously looking around. Professor McGonagall seemed pleased, however, gesturing that he should sit.

When she placed the Hat upon his head, it took less than thirty seconds.

“Hufflepuff!”

James bounded up, practically running to the table so that he could get away from the scrutiny of his peers. His fellow Hufflepuffs squeezed him in, clapping him on the back, and James’s smile was radiant.

And just like that, it was Harry’s turn.

“Harry Hart, just arrived from Beauxbatons.”

As he walked up toward the front of the hall, he felt the nervousness recede like radio static into his mind. He knew that he should be afraid, but he was also numb to the stares around him. Instead, he recalled a sunny summer’s day in his Grand-Mère’s garden.

_He’d been watching the butterflies, as he was wont to do, when the Dowager Mother had found him. He had always been her favorite, for more reasons than one, and she was so pleased with his marks for the first year. Now, she took a seat on the bench beside him, her cane between her knees. A statuesque woman, she had always exuded otherworldly beauty, and today was no different._

_“You love them, don’t you?” she asked._

_“Yes, Grand-Mère.” He’d beamed at her. “They’re fascinating little creatures.”_

_“And magical,” she said. He’d watched in awe as several escaped her sleeves, disappearing with a puff of fragrant smoke as they landed on him. They smelled of her perfume, floral and sweet. “Would you like me to teach you?”_

_“More than anything.”_

Harry shed his woolen overcoat, letting it drop to the floor behind him as he walked. He ignored the murmurs. His outer jacket beneath that was a periwinkle blue, his uniform from Beauxbatons, as instructed. He shed that too, letting it slide to the ground with a whisper of silk and linen, revealing his fine periwinkle waistcoat and his crisp white shirt beneath. He loosened his cuffs, so that they were open at his wrists, and then turned in a wide circle, passing around the little grouping of succulents in the middle of the floor.

 As he did, he lifted his arms, releasing the spell. Butterflies of all shapes and sizes erupted from his sleeves, filling the air with the papery whisper of fluttering wings. Every student in the hall exclaimed as the butterflies took to the air in a rainbow of color, arcing around their heads before puffing out on the floating candles above in little bursts of colored smoke.

Harry wasn’t watching those, however. He was watching a pair of hazel eyes at the end of the Ravenclaw table. While other eyes were fixed toward the ceiling, the boy from before was watching Harry instead.

Harry’s last butterfly, his final cap-off, was a large monarch that sat on the edge of his thumb and forefinger. He brought it to his lips, blowing it like he would a kiss—right at the boy. It fluttered in a lazy circle until it landed right on that straight, hawkish nose of his, wings waving idly for a moment before it burst in a golden cloud.

The boy ducked his head and let it thump onto the table. Harry, grinning, turned to find the professors staring at him. He felt the flush creeping up his neck and ears, blooming across his face. Maybe he should have stuck with his levitation spell.

“Interesting,” murmured Professor McGonagall. “Have a seat, Mister Hart.”

He sat on the stool, swallowing hard as the hat settled down almost to his ears.

**_Well, well, what’s this…_ **

_Wait…are you the hat?_

**_Indeed I am, boy. You’ve been sorted before, I see. Mirror, huh? Interesting…_ **

Harry closed his eyes.

 ** _There’s Veela there_** _,_ the Hat said. **_My, my_** _._

 _One-quarter, from my Grand-Mère. Is that a problem?_ Harry might have been kinder, but it was said in such a way that had him bristling.

**_No. Never a problem. Just assessing your talents. Good with Charms, good with Transfiguration, but those aren’t the things I look for. You’ve got anger in you, anger that can turn to bravery, if you let it. But there’s cunning there, too, and a healthy dollop of ambition. You’ve no compunctions about taking what you want, if it’s cultivated. Flighty, but there’s a lot of heart in there. Skill, and intelligence._ **

_This seems like an awful lot of ifs,_ Harry thought sourly.

**_Of course it does. I never deal in absolutes when it comes to choosing. Once the choice is made, that’s a whole other story—because I’ve never been wrong._ **

_Then where?_

**_Slytherin, at first glance._** The hat chuckled at Harry’s hesitance. **_But only at first glance. They’d make a monster out of you, and no mistake, what with the crop we have right now. No, somewhere else. There’s a fierce loyalty in you, but only if someone knows how to unlock it because you close yourself off. Not Hufflepuff. Intelligence, but your love of learning isn’t an all-consuming hunger, a thirst that will never be slaked. So…not Ravenclaw._**

 ** _But your courage…_** Harry heard the hat chuckle in his mind once more. **_You’d fistfight a ravenous dragon if it meant doing the right thing. You’ll stand up and be heard simply because it’s the correct moral decision._**

_Then…?_

“Gryffindor!” The hat shouted, startling him. The Gryffindor table roared its approval, thumping the tabletop and stamping their feet as he stumbled over toward them. They parted like a red and gold sea, his back thumped hard with several enthusiastic pats.

Professor McGonagall cleared the magical mess away with her wand and waited until they’d settled, then cleared her throat.

“Now that we have that sorted, we have a few announcements…”

* * *

Callum could already hear the whispers. That Harry Hart was going to be the new Head Boy. That he was going to be prefect. That he was going to be their new substitute teacher in a year and a half. That he was handsome, and perfect, and that he was going to take all of them to the Yule Ball.

Callum found he didn’t disagree with the girls’ assessments. He snuck a glance at the Gryffindor table, biting his lip when he caught sight of Harry sitting amongst the other third years.

He couldn’t get the scent of the butterfly out of his mind. Something masculine and woody, teasing his senses in a way that left him wanting more. It was like he’d placed his face in the crook of Harry’s neck and shoulder and _inhaled_. The indolent brown curls shot with delicate wisps of gold, the brown eyes that flashed with mischief and promise. Long fingers that were clever, that quirk to his mouth that was more amusement than anything else. Long legs that promised height in just a few short years.

The kiss that had been blown just for him. He swallowed, fisting his hands on his knees.

Hart was likely showing off. There wasn’t anything else that could be said about that. Callum would keep his head down and do his work, just like he had for the last two years. He didn’t have time for frivolities, especially not now in the darkening political climate.

As dinner started, he went back to his copy of the Daily Prophet. More violence against muggle-born and half-blooded witches and wizards dotted the page, and he sighed, reading the stories. It wouldn’t do to complain, however. He was already ostracizing himself with his own grasp of spells and charms. With consistently high marks, a talent for practical application, and an aptitude and hunger to learn more as quickly as possible, Callum should have been a model student.

His problem was his lack of pureblood status. He’d lost count of the times Slytherins had shoved him in the hallways. He’d learned by now it was better just to not be seen. He’d never won any of them over, and he never would. His life was already difficult, being muggle born and a charity case, abandoned in an orphanage outside of Glasgow and relying on the Ministry’s charity to pay for his supplies as well as his tuition. It didn’t help either that there were scarier things than just that being said about people who felt the way he did on the news back home.

The last thing he needed was someone to get wind of the almost instant attraction he had to Harry Hart. Thankfully, he was spared from sharing a House with him. That would have been disastrous. Instead, he was a shining example of pureblood silver spoon analogy, sitting in the middle of a crowd of admirers at the Gryffindor table, the table that seemed to get the most attention besides the Slytherins.

Good. Let him distract them for a while. Callum could use the break.

He felt eyes on him and his first instinct was to pay attention to the Slytherin table, but they were all concerned with welcoming their third-year transfer, and so were busy. If not them, then who? The feeling didn’t go away, and Callum turned in his seat to find Harry Hart watching him. When their gazes met again, Harry smiled.

Callum swore that the butterfly had disappeared in that puff of fragrant smoke, but it seemed to have migrated to his stomach. The wings flapped, and he looked away hastily, turning his attention back to his dinner.

Oh, this was very bad indeed. Callum could feel it. Things were changing, and if Harry Hart had any say, Callum Craig was in for it. He sighed and pushed his dinner around on his plate, unable to get the butterfly out of his mind.

Yes, he was definitely in for it.


	2. Photographs and Memories (Year Five*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>         _Like a river flows surely to the sea
>     Darling so it goes
>     Some things are meant to be
>     Take my hand, take my whole life too
>     For I can't help falling in love with you_
>       

**[Hogwarts Library, 1975]**

“You know you only have a little time left before Christmas to tell him,” James said, fiddling with his photo album.

“Are we going to have this conversation again?” Merlin asked, not really paying attention as he jotted down more notes. Beside him, two separate quills worked on essays. Not his own—those had been done for months. No, these were extra-curricular projects, one might say.

Ever since the middle of third year, Merlin had found time to earn money however he was able; one of these ways was to do other students’ assignments. He had buyers from all houses, at almost all levels, though the sixth and seventh years only came to him out of desperation.

His rule was simple. You copied the assignment given, or you didn’t get an assignment. His parchment was enchanted for the ink to disappear the hour before the assignment was due. It had worked out in his favor so far; he wasn’t about to change things up.

The hat had only chosen him for Ravenclaw because that was where he was suited. It didn’t mean he didn’t have a ruthless streak.

“Well, yes,” James said, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he fiddled with the glue holding the photos to where they needed to be. Some of them were in need of repair, and the Hufflepuff was carefully resticking the photos into the book. “We’re going to have this conversation until you admit that what I pulled from the both of you is the truth and you go and snog Harry Hart senseless.”

“James…” Merlin rubbed his forehead. While it was true that James was a skilled Legilimens, it just wasn’t going to be in the cards for him. He knew better.

While he’d earned the name ‘Merlin’, it carried with it a note of disdain, especially from the pureblooded wizarding families. To them, he’d always be the muggle-born Callum Craig, someone who dared to reach as high as he did like he’d been born to it. On top of that, admitting that he was in love with Gryffindor’s golden boy Harry Hart would be a death sentence.

Harry was Merlin’s best friend; he was also popular. It was hard to genuinely hate Harry—though the ones that did, Lucius Malfoy included, insisted it was because he was using his quarter-Veela heritage as a means of getting a leg up. Most of Hogwarts paid it no mind. Harry was a skilled chaser, an excellent student where Transfiguration and Charms were concerned, and good with everything else (with Merlin’s careful tutoring).

Merlin would be swallowed up by the crowd if he admitted he was in love with Harry. The interested light in Harry’s eyes would die, and he would turn away from Merlin, convinced that Merlin had been after him specifically because he wanted to be close to him, not because they were friends. He had been friends with Harry, and consequently James and Martin, for two years now, and he didn’t want to trade that fragile friendship for anything, even if it was the truth.

Merlin knew how lonely he’d been at Beauxbatons, though Harry didn’t speak of it often. There were a lot of times that Harry was unsure, for all his seeming confidence. He needed the friendship; James, Martin, and Merlin were the closest friends he’d ever had without them wanting something else from Harry.

Harry deserved a friend more than he deserved a crush.

“Merlin,” James said, frowning. “Do you _really_ not believe me when I say he’s just as mad about you as you are about him?”

When Merlin didn’t answer right away, James gave a put-upon sigh. Merlin had learned to ignore most of James’s sighs—they usually meant that the fifth year Hufflepuff was going to be dramatic about something mundane. But when James didn’t wax on about how no one listened to him, despite him having excellent advice (per James’s usual modus operandi), Merlin raised his eyes from his parchment.

James was digging in his satchel for something. Merlin knew that James carried far more than the usual student, wanting always to be prepared, and had enchanted the bag accordingly. Now, however, there were quills and half-full ink bottles scattered on the table as James dug for whatever he was looking for, wrinkled parchment joining the careful rolls that Merlin was working with before James gave a little noise of discovery and pulled the leather-bound book from his bag.

He swept the rest of the detritus back into the bag, then shoved Merlin’s finished scrolls aside and thumped the book down in front of him.

“You remember teaching me how to develop magical photographs last year, right?” he asked.

Merlin nodded; they’d spent the summer at James’s estate with his twin sister Amanda (who insisted on staying at Salem for her schooling), whiling away the time taking photos and swimming in the pond behind the manor. Harry hadn’t been able to get away from family obligations, and Martin had been expressly forbidden from socializing outside of school. (Merlin knew that rankled James, but no doubt he’d been impressed when Martin had come back the next year with a whole new grasp of the magic they’d be learning.) Merlin had purchased the camera for James as a birthday present; out of the four of them, James was the handiest with it, taking sweeping landscapes and personally touching portraits with an ease that described natural talent.

From then on, he hadn’t been anywhere without it to hand, snapping photographs whenever the mood took him.

“Well, I know something about magical photos that you don’t know,” James said. He tapped the book in front of Merlin. “When I take a photo, I catch what someone’s feeling, right at that moment. I was reading about it, and the theory is that if you want to know how someone feels about someone else, take their photo. They’ll reveal everything, whether they want to or not. The pictures can’t help themselves. While they move, technically, they’re not the same as magical portraits. They can only mimic a tiny snapshot of time, rather than the hours spent painting someone’s portrait. That’s why the paintings can talk and visit each other and the photos don’t.”

Merlin nodded. “I remember reading that theory.”

“That’s why you should look at this,” James said, pushing the book at Merlin. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re not going to believe me without evidence, that’s why I’ve spent so much time putting the stupid thing together.”

Merlin looked down at the leather-bound volume that James was shoving at him until it poked him in his chest.

“Just…look at it?” James wheedled.

Sighing, Merlin took the book and opened it. It wasn’t a book, he realized, as he paged past the first cover sheet. It was a photo album. Specifically, a photo album of himself and Harry. He remembered a lot of these shots, the beginning of the year had seen the Kingsman boys finding more and more ways to avoid the usual in-house aggressions and finding other ways to meet up and study.

They’d chosen the name because of Potter’s ridiculous Marauders, Merlin remembered with a smile. James had dated the photos neatly, his spidery scrawl still readable to Merlin, who proofread a lot of his papers. Each of the photos had Merlin and Harry doing something together. Sometimes it was as innocent as studying, the both of them with their heads bent to their papers, photo Merlin saying something as photo Harry listened intently.

There wasn’t anything untoward about that, though.

“Keep going,” James said, gesturing for him to flip the pages.

As he did, the photos got more and more specific—he and Harry during mealtimes, when it was nice enough to take their lunches outside and sit under the trees by the lake. Harry was leaning on Merlin in these pictures, and while Harry did have the tendency to drape himself close to or nearly on Merlin, he did the same to all of them. James was especially welcoming of his closeness, being fond of touch.

The next page was study sessions, specifically found in the Room of Requirement, a place James had uncovered early on in their third year. It was a nice respite from the almost silent frenzied air of the library, and a good place to hide from the near legion of girls hoping to catch Harry’s eye if they walked by maybe just _one more time_. More than once Merlin had snapped at them to find their own study partners, much to Harry’s amusement, but if he had to listen to them whispering any more he might lose his mind.

That’s when James had introduced the idea of the Room. It was perfectly suited for their needs, and it always seemed to be, containing study materials and a table, with plush, comfortable chairs and snacks. It was peace and quiet when they needed peace and quiet, and they’d taken to using it more often than the library.

Here, though, they weren’t studying. It was their weekend hideaways, where Martin and James were draped over one another (and Merlin made a mental note to ask about _that_ , because that certainly wasn’t the norm for the buttoned-up Martin Gainsborough), but the focus of the picture was on Merlin and Harry. Merlin was seated on the couch, reading aloud, though the limitations of the photo meant that his voice wasn’t heard. It was Harry that was different, this softer, more approachable Harry, dressed not in his robes but in his cardigan, laying on the couch, long legs hooked over the arm and his head in Merlin’s lap.

Merlin certainly would have remembered that—and he remembered when this photo was taken. It was just as summer had been ending, the last of the vestiges of September blowing away, chased by the first falling leaves. It had been raining, so they’d retreated to the Room instead of gamboling about the grounds.

Harry had been seated on the loveseat, James and Martin on a pair of squashy beanbags, and he’d been reading to them from one of the novels that got passed around. Specifically, it was because James declared that he liked Merlin’s voice, but it hadn’t been until Harry had asked that Merlin had agreed. Sometimes it wouldn’t be Merlin, but Harry who read, and Merlin would lose himself to the sound of Harry’s smooth voice, half-heartedly playing chess with James before the fire.

But in this instance, he’d been reading, and he would have definitely frozen if Harry had draped himself like that; but Harry _hadn’t_. Harry had never been like that with him. As he watched the picture, unable to tear his gaze away, the photograph of himself turned a page, then dropped his hand, stroking it through the soft golden-brown curls of Harry’s hair.

“What did you do to these photos, James?” Merlin asked in a shaky voice.

“I took them, and then developed the film,” James answered smartly. “Keep going.”

Page after page, photograph after photograph, it was more and more of the same. Harry leaning in, resting his chin on Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin stroking Harry’s hair as he read. Harry wrapping an arm around Merlin after quidditch practice, covered in mud but grinning from ear to ear while Merlin put up a token (and silent) protest.

The last set of photographs were from Hogsmeade, the weekend before last. Merlin recognized the candles that floated in the trees as they’d made their way towards the village. Harry was wearing the ridiculously overlarge Gryffindor scarf his mother had sent him the week prior, covering his nose and mouth as his breath steamed in the cold. His hair had been dusted with snowflakes, but Merlin hadn’t mentioned it.

He’d nearly slipped and fallen instead.

Merlin remembered the trip; they’d stopped outside Honeydukes to decide what they’d wanted this trip. They’d bickered about candy for a good fifteen minutes before James had declared it was his treat this time and all but forced the other three inside.

But that wasn’t what was happening here. Harry and Merlin were talking, yes, but there didn’t seem to be any hurry. Instead, Merlin’s photograph reached out, tugging down that ridiculous scarf and exposing Harry’s face. He cupped the other boy’s jaw and leaned in, kissing him softly, but sweetly. Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, but he grinned in obvious delight, pulling Merlin closer—

Merlin slammed the photo album shut.

He scooped up his assignments and shoved them all into his bag, shaking his head.

“No, that’s not right,” Merlin said, scowling. “That can’t be right.”

“No you don’t,” James muttered. “You get back here and face the facts, Merlin!”

“That’s not fact, James,” Merlin snapped. “That’s just wishful thinking.”

“On both of your parts!” James said. “Why can’t you just let yourself be happy, Merlin?”

“Because I couldn’t do that to Harry,” Merlin said. He clenched his teeth at James’s stricken look, but turned on his heel and made for the Ravenclaw dormitory, the one place that James couldn’t follow.

* * *

It was the last Hogsmeade weekend before Christmas. Since Merlin wouldn’t be leaving for home, being a part of the orphanage, Harry, James and Martin had elected to stay behind as well, though everyone but James was been baffled by their friend avoiding them for the past week.

He hadn’t been avoiding anyone but Harry, really, but that came part and parcel with avoiding the other two, specifically because Harry would be around. Now, however, he climbed into the carriage, the others exchanging looks but bundling themselves in with Merlin.

He couldn’t meet Harry’s eyes. He wanted the photographs to be true. He wanted it with a wish that was almost physical in the way he held onto it, but he knew that wasn’t going to be the case. Harry wasn’t his to hold. That wasn’t something he could have. He could spend his holiday in the Ravenclaw common rooms, and get a jumpstart on his work for the next semester.

As the carriages rolled themselves towards Hogsmeade, however, Merlin started to relax. He remembered that these were his friends, and he shouldn’t avoid them for the sake of some photos. Instead, he turned to Harry and smiled—

And caught the tail end of a look so full of longing that his heart ached for Harry. But…it was directed at him. Merlin felt confusion start in the pit of his stomach, kicking the butterflies that happened with Harry into overdrive. Harry hadn’t been able to school his expression fast enough, warm brown eyes darting to the side as Merlin met his gaze.

Had James been right? If so, that week of imposed seclusion must have hurt and confused Harry. Merlin wished that this was something he could declare openly, air it out like a coat that had been put away for too long. Instead, he kept his silence, turning his gaze away.

Merlin swallowed, thinking hard on what he needed to do; James and Martin chatted quietly beside them, as though nothing was wrong.

Maybe for them, nothing _was_ wrong. Maybe they’d become used to this. Merlin had to wonder. As the carriages bumped to a stop outside the village gates, he clambered out, buttoning his coat against the cold.

“I need to stop at Dogweed and Deathcap,” Martin declared, crunching down into the snow that blanketed Hogsmeade. “Meet you later?”

“I’ll come with you,” James said, slinging an arm around Martin’s shoulders. Martin bore this with the same long-suffering mild humor that he used with all of James’s moods. “I need to go to Zonko’s anyway.”

“Hog’s Head?” Harry called after them, and they both lifted a hand in acknowledgement as they strolled away, chattering to each other. Merlin glanced over, finding Harry watching him, his scarf pulled up over his nose.

“Honeydukes?” Merlin suggested, and Harry shook his head.

“No, I think I’ll go for a walk,” he said, his voice muffled by his scarf. “But I’ll meet you in a while.”

Merlin frowned, but nodded, joining the crowd that was waiting to get into the sweet shop. He turned, his eyes seeking Harry, and he saw that flash of red and gold disappearing amongst the trees. He looked at the warm lights of Honeydukes, the inviting, festive air of the little village, and realized that it was missing something.

He slipped away, following after Harry.

It took him a good fifteen minutes of puffing through the snow to find Harry’s trail, the tramped on snow a clear track towards the Shrieking Shack. While people did go to see it, it was usually about Halloween, rather than Christmas, and Merlin waded through the snow to find his wayward Gryffindor.

Harry was standing, hands in his pockets, staring out over the frosted woods. The enchanted candles didn’t reach this far, but the weak winter sunlight was enough to see by as Merlin crunched up behind him. Harry leaned against the trunk of a tree, brown eyes staring out at the Shack.

“Harry,” Merlin said, lifting a hand to show it was just him as the boy startled, hand going to where his wand was in his sleeve. There were no Slytherins on the prowl, at least not out this far; the cold kept them to the confines of the village and it was just Harry and Merlin out here, face to face.

“Did I do something wrong?” Harry blurted.

Merlin blinked in confusion, mouth working before he realized that Harry meant for the last week. He’d been avoiding them, which had meant meals taken alone, time spent in his dorms, the company of books.

“N-no,” Merlin said. “It wasn’t you. It was me.”

“Are you okay?” Harry’s voice was still muffled, the flakes of snow catching in his hair and landing on the scarf.

“I am, sort of,” Merlin replied. He crunched closer until they were actually face to face, their almost even height meaning that he could look Harry in the eye. “I was just…thinking about things.”

“About things?” Harry repeated, confusion clear in his soft brown eyes. “What things?”

There would be no other chances. Merlin told himself that as he screwed his courage to the sticking place, feeling his heart thud against his ribs as he swallowed, his hazel eyes meeting Harry’s. He would leave it at this. If this was how Harry felt too, then they could talk about it, but he wasn’t about to let the chance pass any longer.

Christmas miracles still happened, didn’t they?

“Well, about this.” Merlin reached up, tugging Harry’s ridiculous scarf down. He revealed Harry’s soft mouth, the corner turned up in bewildered amusement. Tucking the scarf beneath Harry’s chin, he leaned in, tilting his head and pressing a chaste kiss to Harry’s lips.

There was a sharp inhale, and he felt Harry smile against his mouth, opening as Harry reached up to pull him closer. He melted a little against the other boy, their noses bumping as Harry pulled away, breathing a little ragged as he pressed his forehead to Merlin’s.

“It’s not the Veela, is it?” Harry whispered, his voice hoarse. “Please tell me it’s not because I don’t think I could bear it if it was.”

“The…?” Merlin realized that Harry had been worried about his heritage influencing this. He’d never moved forward with it, afraid that in wanting it he would make it come true simply because of what he was. Merlin reached up, threading his fingers through honey-touched brown hair. “No, Harry. It’s not the Veela. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Harry’s grin was relieved. Merlin couldn’t help but smile back, giving a yelp as Harry kissed him again, the Gryffindor bringing them flush together.

“What changed?” Harry asked, feathering kisses across Merlin’s lips.

“I saw the photos,” Merlin admitted. “The ones James took.”

“He took photos?” Harry asked, pulling away. “He never showed me.”

“He said he needed proof first,” Merlin said. “We were…like this, in almost all of them.”

Harry grinned. “I can’t believe you never noticed.”

“I didn’t want to notice,” Merlin said. “Not because I didn’t want it, but…because of what people would say about you.”

“I don’t care about them,” Harry said. His hand found Merlin’s, their gloves making Harry press his fingers extra-tight. “I care about you.”

Merlin nodded, breathless and giddy. “I care about you, too.”

“Good,” Harry said, looking like the cat who’d caught the canary. “This means I get to see that photo album, right?”

“If you must,” Merlin said, letting Harry herd him close, pressing his back against the bark of the tree.

“Later,” Harry said, dipping his head to kiss Merlin again. “I’m busy now.”

Merlin agreed. It could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas. 
> 
> I haven't been feeling myself, Constant Readers, so I wanted to get this out there. This isn't actually how these two confess, but it was a cute idea that wouldn't leave me be. I know I'm probably taking liberties with the photo thing, but it was a nice theory. Sometimes all you need is fluff.
> 
> Same rules apply as they do for P&M -- anything that's an AU gets an asterisk. :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, Constant Readers. As always, your comments and kudos are appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is completely self-indulgent and it SHOULD HAVE BEEN DONE BY HALLOWEEN. But I have been really tired as of late so I apologize for not getting this done sooner. 
> 
> Anyway. This is going to be updated sporadically. There's also probably not going to be the same attention to continuity that P&M has; I'll likely just note the dates at the beginning. If I ever end up considering this finished, I'll sort through and adjust chapters as needed, but until then they'll stand as is.
> 
> My focus needs to be on Bon Dia -- I'm hoping to have it finished by the end of November. After that I have another short form AU I want to explore (basically Wednesday's Child but actually HAPPY), and then my attention can return wholly to P&M.
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoy, Constant Readers. I have a lot of fun in this 'verse and I hope you will too.
> 
> (Also, yes, I am aware of all the liberties I'm taking. Shh. I don't want constructive criticism - I'm good with what I'm doing.)


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